Page 2

TWO

Red Dress

Paul

My fierce gaze cuts over the attendees gathered for the inspection. The lecture hall, a private room tucked back in the bowels of the Metropolitan, holds a little over thirty of the world’s most influential art historians and experts.

I include myself among that elite group even if I don’t share their credentials. Nevertheless, I’ve been trained well enough to stand nose-to-nose with the overbearing assholes gathered.

These people measure their importance by the fading paper hung on their walls, oblivious to the outside world and incapable of original thought.

A false politeness litters the air—fake smiles, expensive suits, glittering diamonds, and the haughty opinions of men and women who hold themselves above and too far apart from the common man.

They smother the room with their overcompensation, and I choke on the offensive reek of their entitlement.

Too many noses lift.

Too many eyes look down.

Too many stuffed suits stretch beneath the pressure of the overly proud and overly indulgent flesh.

These people come to weigh in on the validity of an impossible claim, and from the whispers and rushed conversations, the world’s experts are a breath away from declaring The Lovers an original Van Gogh.

They are all fools.

I sit in the back, closest to the door, primed for a quick exit and a bird’s-eye view of all in attendance. The remainder of the seats in my row remain vacant while those below me slope down toward the stage.

Everyone else crowds the front rows, ensuring they have the best view for the reveal.

My father says foolish pride will be my undoing, but I can’t stay away and not watch the spectacle. Leaning forward, I glance at the clock and patiently wait for the day’s event to unfold.

Only a few minutes left.

All the technical analyses are complete. Several experts performed their initial stylistic examinations. There will be more validations over the days to come, but I’m sure of the outcome and wait for validation of my skill.

Not that I need the validation of these arrogant fools. My gift rivals the old master himself, and my pride demands my presence when the announcement comes.

That affirmation begins with the arrival of a man in a black suit, who enters through a doorway at the front of the room, far to the right. The man carries a folder in one hand and tugs at his tie with the other. His dress shoes squeak against the polished tiled floor.

Conversations quiet as his arrival draws the attention of the entire room.

Marc Bailey, the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Director of Acquisitions, needs no introduction. He moves to the podium set right of center. Behind him, the wall is blank, but soon, that wall will pivot, and the masterpiece will rotate into view.

I press my palms to my thighs and sit back, affecting a bored disinterest, but I admit to some acceleration of my pulse.

These things don’t usually affect me, but this will be a true test of my skill. I don’t expect anyone to discover my signature within the oils, but if they do, I want the world to know that these pompous idiots are fools.

With a clearing of his throat, Bailey addresses the room.

“Welcome, and good day. We appreciate your willingness to assist our Acquisitions Department in validating this most spectacular find.”

Willingness?

Everyone in the room received a personal invitation, weighed and measured against their acumen in the world of art. They slobber with their willingness to be one of the few invited.

Bailey gestures over his head, signaling his video support. “If you don’t mind, a little introduction before we begin…”

He drones on about the particulars of the unknown donor and the bequeathal of The Lovers to the museum. The crowd meets his comment about this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with some amusement.

Van Gogh’s painting Sunset at Montmajour was unveiled in 2013. It was lying around in the attic of a collector who bought the painting in 1908 and dismissed it as a fake.

That painting underwent the same extensive analysis as The Lovers when it was discovered. Which makes this the second time within a lifetime that a Van Gogh resurfaced.

A flush creeps up Bailey’s neck at the good-natured chuckles of his audience. He proceeds to cough his way through the provenance of The Lovers , expounding on the sketch included in a letter from Vincent to his brother, Theo—the only proof of the artwork’s existence. Bailey explains the history behind the plunder responsible for the loss of this work of art.

He drones on about the museum’s mandate to adhere to the Task Force on the Spoliation of Art requirements. They are required to locate the original owners of the artwork and return it, if possible.

He continues with a short dissertation on how the Met follows international guidelines concerning the unlawful appropriation of Nazi-era art.

I tune him out, waiting for the preamble to conclude and the actual show to begin.

A few minutes into Bailey’s long-winded speech, the back door flies open, banging loudly into the quiet of the room.

A man in his mid-sixties stumbles in, briefcase in hand, wearing a tired and worn tweed coat, wrinkled slacks, and scuffed shoes. He clings too hard to the vestiges of youth with his hippie shoulder-length hair.

I dismiss the interruption, but then she enters the room.

Behind the rumpled gentleman, a stunning vision in red peeks through the doorway. Her apprehensive gaze telegraphs an apology for interrupting Bailey’s ponderous presentation. The very air stills with her beauty.

The woman takes a tentative step inside the room, and then she rolls back her shoulders and stiffens her spine when she realizes all eyes are trained on her.

An undeniable poise radiates from her, a grace cultivated and refined over time. It’s evident in the way she moves: the way she holds her head high and keeps her shoulders back, each step a testament to her elegant upbringing.

This air of sophistication was momentarily absent when she tentatively peeked into the room, a brief flicker of vulnerability that disappeared as quickly as it emerged.

Yet, behind the facade of confidence, lies a subtle undercurrent of timidity swirling in the depths of her eyes.

It’s a fleeting, almost imperceptible hint of uncertainty that most would overlook, fooled by her shuttered expression and poised demeanor. But I make it a habit to read people and notice the nuances that others might miss.

In her, I see a complexity that draws me in, making me want to unravel the enigma she presents.

But there’s something else, something far more potent and enthralling, that emanates from her.

It’s an indescribable allure, a raw sensuality that spills into the room, filling the air and captivating my breath. She exudes it effortlessly, oblivious to her power, which only magnifies its impact.

It’s a magnetic pull, a subtle intoxication that makes it impossible to look away or think about anything but her.

This lethal combination of elegance, vulnerability, and innate sensuality sets my senses alight. It stirs within me a desire to know her, to understand her, and to protect her.

The crimson gown clings to her like a whispered secret, tracing the sumptuous curves of her body with an intimacy that makes my heart pound.

The silky fabric is a perfect shield against the wintery chill that lingers in the early March air, yet it hides nothing from my appreciative gaze. Instead, it reveals her in a way that sets my senses ablaze.

The long sleeves and high collar lend an air of elegance, but the way the fabric molds to her form is nothing short of sinful. It embraces her like a lover’s caress, accentuating the full, tantalizing swell of her breasts, the enticing dip of her waist, and the provocative flare of her hips.

My eyes trace the path of the fabric, lingering on every curve, every line, drinking in the sight of her.

Her hips are a symphony of promise, the kind that beg to be grasped and held firmly as I draw her close. Her legs, even hidden beneath the luxurious fabric, are an invitation, one that my mind eagerly accepts, envisioning them wrapped around me, opening for me, and welcoming me in.

There’s an artistry in how the gown highlights her body, a sculptural masterpiece that demands admiration. Yet, it’s not just the dress that captivates me.

It’s her—the confidence with which she carries herself, the allure in her eyes, the subtle smile that hints at secrets yet to be unveiled. Each curve and each line of her body is a journey I long to explore with my hands, my lips, and my tongue.

The sight of her stirs a hunger within me, a desire that’s both primal and reverent. She is a feast for the senses, a tantalizing vision that leaves me spellbound and eager to unwrap the layers that separate us, to uncover the treasures hidden beneath the crimson embrace of her gown.

I relax the clenching of my fingers, my gaze glued to her every movement. From the intake of her breath to the sweep of her smile, I absorb her essence and decide to arrange a moment alone with the woman in red.

She follows the bumbling older gentleman, picking her way across the tiles on stilettos with her forever-long legs making it seem as if she was born wearing four-inch heels. Her lovely golden tresses are swept into a French twist, and sun-kissed tendrils escape the confines of the updo to soften the gentle angles of her jaw.

Her almond-shaped eyes glow with uncanny intelligence and flutter beneath smoky lashes. Barely a hint of blush, mascara, and eyeliner mar her features, and the faintest pink lipstick kisses her lips.

Oh, I’m envious of the lipstick swept across the swell of her perfect mouth.

The woman is a true vision.

The older man lifts a hand to those gathered in silent apology for his interruption and gestures for Bailey to continue. He scans the small auditorium and then edges toward the empty seats beside me.

I stand to let the man squeeze by, biting back a grunt when his heavy briefcase bumps against my shins. The woman trails after, the delicate scent of lilac and rose blooming in the air with her approach.

She turns to squeeze past me, twists her heel, and pitches into my waiting arms.

“Easy there.” I catch her, holding her close, wanting to feel the press of her body against mine.

Her eyes widen, and her body stiffens.

“Excuse me.” She casts me a startled look, as if only now becoming aware I still hold her against my chest.

My nostrils flare with her intoxicating scent—from her floral perfume to the crisp, clean smell of her hair. Carefully, I settle her back on her feet, supporting her weight until I’m certain she won’t fall again.

Holding her gaze, I take a moment to admire the features of her face. Her pert mouth and high cheekbones frame a delicate heart-shaped face. Eyes of the deepest blue swirl with a mixture of gray. The gentle curve of her ears holds the most exquisite star sapphires.

The woman regains her footing before I can think about it and shrugs out of my grip.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathes out. “Apologies.”

Her lilting voice strokes my desire, spurring a feral impulse to claim and conquer. Moving two chairs down, she sits beside the man in the rumpled trousers and fraying tweed. She presses her legs together and tugs at the hem of her skirt, pulling it down to her knees.

She turns away, placing her back to me, but when she casts a furtive glance over her shoulder, I catch her gaze and hold the shock in her eyes with a dominating power.

Her mouth parts and then clamps shut. With a jerk of her chin, she turns away.

I lower myself into my chair and ignore everything but the vision in red. Meanwhile, Bailey resumes his discourse, droning on, dismissive of the beauty who joins our esteemed collection of experts.

As she seems too young to be a part of this illustrious gathering, I wonder at her credentials. She’s connected to the man in tweed. They certainly affect the ease of longtime acquaintances. Her hand strays too often to his arm, and her lips dip too close to his ear, whispering beneath the threshold of my hearing.

Those earrings.

Stunning sapphires.

They can’t be…

I’ve seen the matching necklace in a photo back in my chateau. Much larger, that priceless gem was worn by the woman my father loved and lost during the ravages of a world war.

Did I flush out a Faulks this easily?

Is this the mysterious Vivianne Faulks?

Heiress to the vast accumulation of Faulks’ wealth?

Thieves?

I have no idea what Bailey says next, except, at one point, the lights turn down, and the slow rotation of the wall reveals the painting I created. It’s as perfect and authentic as humanly possible.

My version of Van Gogh’s The Lovers is better than the original.